Inward
by Catherine Pugh
Summary: Sherlock spends a lot of time in the morgue. What is really going through his enigmatic mind?
1. Chapter 1

"Hullo, Sherlock!" she says brightly, as she saunters into the morgue wearing that absurd cherry-printed jumper. "Black, two sugars?"

"Oh, it's you, Molly, hullo," I respond gruffly.

_Of COURSE it's her, you git, _I think to myself.

"Thank you, that is very kind." I attempt a wan smile and continue peering into the microscope at my urine samples. She disappears through the hallway doors toward the kitchenette, while I notice that I have held my breath for nearly a full minute, and my heart pounds. I hate this the most about my job. I hate not being able to concentrate.

I already know that I'm going to be sorely distracted if I am not careful. She's done her hair like…like THAT again. To the side. I was stupid enough to compliment her on it. Sentimental fool that I am…little ringlets cascading from her head, done up in elastic. Small highlights of red, only perceptible under the fluorescent lighting. It's not a uniform colour; this is her natural state. She is not a box dye woman. Every detail about her hair leaps forward to my attention, which, in turn, causes every detail of her face to follow suit. I must concentrate hard to ignore everything, or I would spend my entire afternoon dissecting the bodily features of Dr. Molly Hooper instead of focusing upon these godforsaken urine drips. My mind wanders whilst she's off fetching us coffee. For once, I indulge in it. It's a slow day, I reason, and I'm on the verge of boredom.

Ah, you see, I think that's the crux of it. I'm never bored with Molly Hooper. She thinks I find her annoying, which I do on purpose to keep from going up like a pile of dry timber around her. Occasionally I will slip and say something I mean, and she always picks up on it and hangs onto it like a dog begging for scraps. I hate those moments of weakness; I hate seeing her face fall when I hurt her. I wish I could delete those feelings she causes in me, or at least kiss her.

I have always been dreadful with women. My parents shoved Mycroft and me off to a posh boarding school, which gave us impossible social skills when it came to dealing with females. Mycroft's an utter queen, so I'm sure he had less of a problem…I'm sure he loved all those handsome young men in his presence. But I was miserable and lonely. I tried meeting women at university, vaguely hoping for some kind of experience, but I was hopeless. I constantly heard "freak," "too strange for my taste," or sensed fear in them, especially when they'd see my skull. I got used to solitary existence and decided it was easier to shut out the entire lot. Boring. I'd rather focus my attention on my work. No sense in gooping over girls when they're only capable of talking about film stars or feelings.

I am well-aware that Molly fancies me. I've seen her blog…a pink travesty full of kitten pictures, really, though I'd certainly never tell her I've spied on her page numerous times. I've used John's computer to do that. I have an advantage of knowing her feelings toward me, so I feel a little more like making the risk to lash out a bit to throw her off. If she only knew how special she really is. Most women fail to find themselves interested in a man who's just beaten the corpse of a co-worker with a riding crop, but lord love a duck, Molly Hooper went and asked me out for coffee afterward. Part of me wanted to so desperately, but I feigned ignorance to make things easier.

She is not normally one for small talk, so when she stammers out some idiotic observation or attempts one of her lame jokes, it sounds trite compared to our usual discussions about rigour mortis and the spread of postmortem bruising. Why can't she simply stick to where her strengths lie? I know she's a smart, capable woman. I'm a little flattered that I make her so weak, but it makes me angry, too. I want to see the capable Molly. If she didn't find me attractive, she'd be less of an imbecile when we were in the same room. I suppose it goes both ways. If my defences are down, it complicates matters in ways I do not want.

She's back. She hands me my coffee, perfectly done.

"Thank you," I say.

"You're in a good mood, Sherlock!" she chirps. "Findings going well, then?"

"Very. I like what you did with your eye shadow this morning." _I do, I really do. It brings out her eyes beautifully. Damn, damn you, Sherlock. Shut up. I am slipping, but she is so…ugh, darling. She's darling._

She turns nearly purple with embarrassment, stammers a thank you, and darts around the morgue. She sings a pop song softly, likely to calm her nerves. The lyrics are god-awful. I'm rather glad she is not embarrassed to sing in front of me…she does obviously have some vocal training…likely in school choir or something. I quite like her voice, even if her choice in music is abysmal. She sings in a pleasant soprano, and it breaks up the monotony of the hums of the lights and refrigerators.

She is sitting across from me right now, piecing together fragments of bone from a skeleton found earlier this week. I find myself looking at her face…that strange mouth I want to kiss so badly. She looks up and is instantly scarlet. I need to quickly save face.

"Errr…something wrong, Sherlock?" she asks. "I'm sorry. Was my singing bothering you? I'll stop."

"I forgot to mention, you put on lipstick," I say, more sharply than I intend. It's the safest thing I can think of. There is no way I can let her know I was daydreaming about those lips against mine. The inviting colour of red, obviously meant to mimic shades of sexual arousal to create feelings of desire. It works, goddammit.

"Oh. Errr, yes," she falters, not understanding. Good. I would melt into the floor if she guessed what I was thinking.

She's daintily wiping off the lipstick with her coffee napkin. Shit. I realize too late that she misunderstands me and thinks I'm disdainful. I feel a pang of regret and open my mouth to say something, but she's lost in her work again, this time her face looks grim. My heart hurts. I have no idea what to say or do to apologize, so I go back to work. It's very difficult to get back into my zone. I'm distracted by my emotions and desires for her, which vexes me. I feel myself getting more and more frustrated. It's not Molly's fault…not really. But I tend to take it out on her

_If you only knew, Molly Hooper._

That I take note every day of her wonderful fragrance and wish I could wrap her in my arms. I do try to find excuses to touch her when I get a chance…accidental hand bumps, guiding her through doors, helping her with body bags. But I can't do it often or she'll know. I know she reads right through me. It might be why I'm in love with Molly Hooper. She observes.

"Molly…"

"It's alright, Sherlock, I never pass inspection, do I?" Her eyes have the beginnings of tears.

"That's not what I mean."

"What, then? Is it my jumper? Is it too immature for you? Not all of us can afford designer suits, can they? Maybe it's my hair that's annoying you, today. But no, you said you liked it parted this way, didn't you? So that can't be it." She rips her beautiful hair out of the elastic and swoops it into a bun.

I sit there, staring at her in horror, unable to speak as she's falling apart. I don't know what makes her so self-conscious. I assume some hideous man in her past made her feel insecure about her looks. Finally, I break the tension and choke out how I really feel. It sounds so stupid, in actual one-syllable words. She deserves a sonnet.

"Molly, I like you just the way you are. Don't try so hard. You're…fine."

She looks at me with querulous eyes, afraid I'm going to mock her again. For the first time, I'm firm.

"Do you really mean that?" she asks, cautiously.

_Do I really mean that. Of course, you simpering idiot. I could write volumes about the colour of your eyes alone. How much I long to hold you in my arms and caress your ringlets of honey coloured hair…_

"Yes, Molly Hooper," is all I manage.

That's done it. She smiles. I look at my watch. I need to leave for an appointment. I reach into my pocket and my fingers find something I picked up off the kerb earlier in the day. I want her to have it, but don't know how to present it to her like a normal person. Most men would give it to her in a pretty box or something. I don't have a pretty box.

"Hold out your hand," I order.

"What? Why?"

"Just do as I say, please," I repeat. She obeys, and I lay the tiny object in her hand and run out the doors as fast as my feet can take me before she can stop me and ask why.


	2. Chapter 2

I've just made an idiot of myself for going through the list of the women John's shagged in the past few months. I never like John's girlfriends. They're boring. All of them. I hate hearing their peacocky voices making comments about the flat. None of them can start an interesting conversation. It's all "Ohhh, so you collect bugs?" or "Ohhhh, you like tea?" DULL.

Why on earth did John talk me into inviting Molly to this…soirée? I've already flatly refused to wear a reindeer jumper and antlers. Why can't people simply gather around the Yule log and stare at its flaming embers whilst eating a leg of mutton? If you ask me, that's all I envision for Christmas cheer. At least Mrs Hudson made us a plum pudding. I do like that.

I've just finished playing my violin to calm my nerves about her coming here. Curses. Now I regret asking her. My heart rate elevates and my breathing quickens as she comes up the stairs. I want to retreat into my room, but it's too late. Instead, I pretend that I'm vexed that she's shown up.

I have no idea how she will react to the cat necklace. I should have just waited until tonight at a normal place and time, but no, I shoved it in her hand like an animal…in the morgue. Molly's not the type to make a scene, but I'll know if she liked it if she's wearing it… a little necklace I'd found of tiny cat. Simple – 14K gold, quite beautifully crafted and probably belonging to some simpering dowager. I saw it gleaming by my foot when I was waiting for a cab. The clasp was broken, but I fixed it within a minute.

I was amused that I, of all people, was the one to find such a ridiculous bauble. At first I thought I'd just leave it for someone else to find, but when I looked it over, I was reminded of Molly's incessant feline fables. I thought she'd find it humourous.

_Toby, Toby the bloody cat_. She thinks I never pay attention to her stories about Toby climbing shelves, Toby batting at a piece of paper, Toby eating broccoli - so she always clarifies that Toby is her CAAAAT, and NOT her BOYFRIENNNND, in that sing-song tone of hers that gets on my nerves. (For goodness sakes, I have a 182 IQ, Molly.)

When I got to St. Bart's, I placed the whimsical necklace in a small, unused urine sample cup and wrote "TOBY" on it, along with a small folded note that said "221B 7:00 tomorrow, Xmas party" Later I shoved it in her hand and tore off before she could say anything.

I'm having difficulty thinking about her, in my flat, looking around at my belongings, probably reading all sorts of things into my gift for her and analysing the fairy lights pattern or something like all women seem to do. Wasted observation skills.

As she looks around, I begin to panic as I imagine Molly Hooper judging everything she sees. My framed bat, the skull, the weaponry, the spraypainted wall, everything I like that seems to upset people.

_Keep it together, Sherlock. _

Arrgh, why can't I be cool and collected like John? He has no trouble with women at all. I don't know how he does it. If these people had any idea. I have to remain calm.

"Ohhhh, dear lord," I mutter, as she whisks through the door, greeting everybody with that musical voice of hers. "Ohhhh everyone's saying hello to each other, how WONDERFUL," I continue in my mocking voice, just to hide the fact that my insides have turned to jelly upon seeing her radiance. Christ almighty, she's wearing that shade of red that makes me…I have to stop. I'm having those visions again of whisking her back into my room.

She laughs nervously as she removes her coat, revealing…ye gods. What on earth is she wearing? She's like Botticelli's Venus, only just slightly more clothed. My breath catches and I have no idea what to do, so I try my best to ignore her. I glance at her neck to see if the cat is there.

She's not wearing it. She hates it. I felt sure she'd wear it like a trophy, but there is no sign of the cat around her neck.

She is, however, completely overdressed for our party. Clearly we're her first stop for the evening. She's only dropping off at Baker Street for a quick "drinkies," as she so quaintly puts it, before jaunting off to what looks to be a romantic evening with some other man. Obvious. The effect is not lost. Watson and Lestrade gawp at her like brainless idiots, but I feel her eyes burning upon me and me alone, challenging me to say something nice before she blows my heart apart by announcing another romance.

Fine. I know this game, Molly Hooper. Who is it now, another Moriarty contact? No, I doubt it. Moriarty doesn't know about Molly. No one does. So it's clearly some other gentleman she's painted her face for, and is meeting later. Maybe she's actually part of Moriarty's network. I've known her several years, but you never know who…oh god, no, perhaps it's Lestrade. He's all over her like flies on honey. I can't bear the thought of Molly off with that swinger, and so I start snapping at everyone with my observations. Not working, Lestrade's making her a drink. Time for a pre-emptive strike.

I get up and start spouting off before she even gets a chance to reveal her bluff. HA! I start by picking apart every detail of her outfit. Ha. She's mocking me with her hoop earrings – nice touch, Miss HOOPer – I didn't miss that…I relentlessly follow through with the most precise, cutting deduction I can muster.

Her wrapped present, her lipstick, her thought process in dressing for the evening, pointing out that she has LOVE ON HER MIND. I hate him already, whoever this bastard is, and I want her to know it. And you know what? I revel in seeing her shrink. She deserves it, for playing these immature mind games with me. I cannot abide that.

And then, just as I point out the reasons why she selected that godforsaken outfit that showcases her gorgeous breasts, I open the dreaded envelope that likely contains the name of some other IT moron from St. Bart's, and my heart stops. I swallow the lump in my throat. Oh no. Goddammit.

DEAREST SHERLOCK

LOVE MOLLY XXX

Sherlock Holmes, you bloody fucking idiot. You cannot take this back. IDIOT, IDIOT, IDIOT.

Molly just stands there in shock, blubbering about how I say such horrible things. I brace myself for the barrage of admonishment I certainly deserve. She doesn't do it. She just stands there, genuinely stunned, clutching her wine glass. I feel as if I've been physically punched. I'm suddenly acutely aware of five pairs of eyes boring into me in horror.

The dress, the makeup, everything I just threw in her face to humiliate her…she meant it for me, not some IT clown. And now she just stares into space.

I don't know if I've ever apologised for anything and actually meant it. I feel genuine remorse for this display. There's nothing comforting I can say after that horrid, mocking diatribe. All I can say is I am sorry, forgive me. I lean down and kiss her on the cheek, and wish her a happy Christmas. Oh lord, but her cheek is so soft. Oh, go away, everyone. Stop staring.

"Auughhh!"

BLOODY HELL. At that precise moment, that godforsaken vulgar text noise hits my phone and….oh god. From bad to worse. I need to deal with this. I go in my room and examine the parcel containing the dreadful mobile; anything to get this horrid encounter off my mind. I call Mycroft. I am going to have to focus on Irene Adler. This case is picking up.

I hear Molly leave the party five minutes later, just after the rest of the party murmurs words of comfort to her.

Mrs Hudson pounds on my door a few minutes after she leaves and sits down next to me on my bed.

"You bloody git," she says sharply. "You call that sweet girl and properly apologise, right now."

"Mrs Hudson…" I start, and she was having none of it.

"No, you listen to me. I was never so mortified, watching you publicly tear apart that dear girl like that. No wonder you never have a girlfriend, if that's how you behave."

"Mrs Hudson…I…"

"Don't be daft, Sherlock. I know how you feel about her."

I look down, angry that my face is reddening.

I call Molly's number instead of texting. She doesn't answer. I don't blame her, of course, but part of me hoped that she would so I could talk to her. Maybe she's on the Tube. I don't know. I text her instead. John would have a laughing fit if he knew how much I was groveling. Bloody John. I'm sure he knows now. It's obvious to everyone that I'm head over heels for her. I just showed myself as weak.

**Molly, I am truly sorry. Can I make amends? – SH**

Ten agonising minutes later, after the rest have gone downstairs to Mrs Hudson's; as I'm getting on my coat to meet Mycroft, Molly responds. My breath catches before I read her words, terrified I've done irreparable damage.

**Did you open it? – MH x**

Did I open - - ?

Oh. No, I haven't. I stomp out into the living room, snatch her gift, and unwrap the paper with the same amount of surgical care she took to wrap it. I feel like I need to honour her efforts after this horrid display.

Inside the parcel is an Erlenmeyer flask filled with raven feathers and the bone of a human finger, accompanied by a small wax seal "SH" with a red sealing-wax stick. Something only someone who knows me well could possibly create. It is so beautiful. I feel my eyes moisten and it vexes me. I put it in my room where no one else can see it, and begin a text as I run down to the cab.

**Beautiful. Thank y-.**

I pause a second, erase, then re-type.

**It is enchanting. I put it on my bed table. Thank you. Happy Christmas. - SH**

There's no time to deal with any more of this nonsense, however. I must fetch Mycroft and head down to the morgue. At least I won't be running into Miss Hooper there.


End file.
